Absolution and Eggs
by starry19
Summary: Set post 4x24. "He realized anew what his leaving had done to her. She was the same beautiful Lisbon, but different. She had a new fragility around her, like she was nearly ready to shatter. Her cheekbones were hollowed; her collarbone would cut glass. In a moment, he understood: he had broken her heart. He was still breaking her heart."


Disclaimer: If I owned them, they would be sleeping together. Duh.

Summary: Set post 4x24. "He realized anew what his leaving had done to her. She was the same beautiful Lisbon, but different. She had a new fragility around her, like she was nearly ready to shatter. Her cheekbones were hollowed; her collarbone would cut glass. In a moment, he understood: he had broken her heart. He was still breaking her heart."

**Absolution and Eggs**

Patrick Jane was not a man given to public displays of rage. No, he preferred to quietly plot revenge and brood. He was a brooder. And he had never seen the point of loud, screaming declarations of anger. Why waste all that energy when a few quiet threats had the same effect?

Right at the moment, however, he was ﬁghting the urge to throw his ﬁst into the brick wall of his attic hideout. The only thing that stopped him was the possibility of breaking a bone and then having to explain it to Lisbon. Assuming she was speaking to him. Which she probably was not. And he certainly wasn't going to give himself an injury if Lisbon wasn't going to fuss over him.

He settled for scrubbing his hands over his face. He needed to shave. And get a haircut. Maybe he would feel slightly more himself, be able to deal with things in his usual manner again.

But he was terriﬁed that if he left the CBI now, he would return to ﬁnd Lorelei dead, and all of her useful information dead with her. He only hoped that when he could drag his focus away from the woman sitting in the holding cell a few ﬂoors down that the other brunette in his life would forgive him.

Lisbon didn't deserve what she had been given. Which was very little, to be perfectly honest. He felt bad about that. He should have found a way to contact her long before he did. He should have told her about Lorelei, warned her.

The expression she wore in the interrogation room when Lorelei had informed her about their night together was one of the worst moments he had faced in a while. She was shocked, betrayed, hurt, all in equal measures. He could tell that without even looking at her, which he ﬂatly refused to do. For one, he was having a silent power struggle with Lorelei. For another, he really, really hated when Lisbon was hurt. His ﬁrst instinct was to make everything better, and that wouldn't do in this situation.

So he had let her crucify him with her eyes, wanting to at least lace their ﬁngers together to offer her some measure of comfort.

They left the room at the same time. Her strides ate up the ground, and she made a beeline for her ofﬁce. The blinds jerked shut. He had been able to feel how much effort she was exerting to hold herself together, and now he was sure she was taking advantage of the relative isolation of her ofﬁce to have a minor breakdown.

In all the years they had worked together, he had never once known for certain that she was somewhere crying because of him. He had suspected, certainly, but had never known. He could pick the lock on her door, that would be easy enough. Could walk over to where she was on the couch. Could take her in his arms and beg her to forgive him.

Instead, he had ﬂed, knowing that she would more than likely shoot him if he got within ﬁve feet of her.

The attic was exactly how he had left it, just a little dustier. He sprawled out on the mattress, arms folded negligently behind his head.

He felt a sudden, vindictive rage.

Red John had already taken his wife and his daughter. Was he going to lose the only other woman he had ever loved because of the man, too? At least she wouldn't be dead. It would be worth Lisbon pushing him away, if only it meant she could rid herself of the bulls eye etched on her back.

He was helpless, helpless to protect her. Especially when she'd refuse to be protected in the ﬁrst place.

Thus, the burning desire to hit something solid.

There were footsteps on the stairs. The light tread meant female, the occasional hesitation meant Lisbon. Maybe she was coming to punch him.

She rapped lightly on the door. "Jane? Are you in there?"

He smiled sadly to himself. In the past, she wouldn't have bothered to knock before pushing her way inside. It was a measure of how many bridges he had managed to burn.

"Come on in," he said neutrally, sitting up.

With a slight groan of protest, the door slid open. Slowly, carefully, almost, Lisbon picked her way across the room and sat beside him. Their shoulders were nearly touching. Nearly, but she had left space deliberately.

Her eyes were rimmed with red, though she had done an admirable job of trying to hide the evidence of her tears. There was still a slight mother-of-pearl shine below her lashes, another sign.

Ofﬁcially, then, he had succeeded in making her cry. Had he thought that he knew all about guilt already? Clearly, he was an idiot.

"I'm sorry," he said, very quietly.

She frowned, shaking her head. "Did you know?" she asked abruptly. "Did you know she was working for Red John? Before you slept with her, I mean." She very nearly stuttered on the last sentence, and he could see the pain in her eyes again.

"Yes," he said simply. "I knew."

Her shoulders sagged, and she let out a breath, looking...relieved?

"Okay."

He blinked. "Okay? That's it?"

She shrugged. "That was the answer I was hoping for." When he kept staring, she continued. "If you knew, then I can understand that. Hell, Jane, you'd sleep with Rigsby if you thought it would get you closer to Red John."

He snorted. "Rigsbyʼs not really my type, Lisbon."

One dark eyebrow arched up. "Who is your type, Jane? Sociopathic disciples of serial killers?"

His lips twitched. "It would seem so." He stretched out his legs in front of him. "Just wondering, Lisbon...what if I hadn't known?"

"Then my head probably would have exploded with the irony of it all." It was her turn to ﬁght a smile. "I mean, come on. How twisted can you get?"

He knew what she meant: the ﬁrst woman he slept with since his wife died turned out to be working for the very man who killed her. That would just be too much, even for him.

"Your brain is safe, I promise. It was pretty obvious Lorelei was working with an agenda, almost as soon as she started talking. Believe me, I was not putting my best foot forward. I introduced myself as a broke con-man, all while wearing a wedding ring. Tell me, how many pretty, young women are going to stick around after hearing that? Oh, and then I lit a guy on ﬁre and got tased."

Reluctantly, she smiled, and Jane felt relieved. "Do me a favor," she said, voice taking on a slight edge. "Promise me you won't whore yourself out to any other Red John disciples."

He held up one hand in a salute. "I promise. No more whoring myself out."

She was quiet, and he took a moment to reﬂect. Was this it? Was this all she was going to demand from him? He had told her he loved her, for Godʼs sake. Not that he had really meant to say the words, at least not at that particular moment. In all the ways he had imagined telling her, never once had there been a gun in his hand or a terrified, wild emotion running through his veins. Still, there was no more denying that she didn't know how he felt...and she was going to let him get away with this?

That told him that she wanted their old relationship back, wanted it badly. There were so many conversations they should be having, conversations she was entitled to have, and she was going to pretend it was all ﬁne, just so things would be okay with them again.

He realized anew what his leaving had done to her. She was the same beautiful Lisbon, but different. She had a new fragility around her, like she was nearly ready to shatter. Her cheekbones were hollowed; her collarbone would cut glass. In a moment, he understood: he had broken her heart. He was still breaking her heart.

"I'm sorry," he said again, carefully reaching down to take her hand. "It didn't mean anything, you know." Which was a stupid thing to say, because it obviously meant something to Lisbon. He sighed. "Try to forgive me for this sometime," he asked. "I don't expect you to today, or even tomorrow. But eventually, I hope you do."

She was tense again; he could feel it through the hand that was clutching his. God, her ﬁngers felt thin. He raised her hand to his lips, carefully brushing a kiss across her knuckles.

Although her cheeks ﬂushed, her emerald eyes remained bruised. He rested their joined hands on his leg. After a moment, Lisbon titled her head onto his shoulder. Neither of them spoke or looked at each other.

It was so quiet in the room that the sounds of trafﬁc drifted clearly up to them, the mundane honks and revving engines providing incongruent background noise for their moment. As the time passed, the crazy, hectic energy that had possessed them both for days seemed to ebb away. There was no more need to be frantic, no more need to keep sheer and utter panic at bay.

He peered down at Lisbon once. Her lashes had ﬂuttered shut, standing out like pen strokes against her pale skin. The deep purple rings around her eyes spoke of endless nights of sleep deprivation, and he was sorry all over again. Tentatively, he reached across their bodies to brush the pad of his thumb against the dark smudges. Her eyes opened at his touch.

"Now that you're done being worried about me, you should spend some time being worried about yourself," he whispered, leaning down until he was nearly resting his forehead against hers.

She gave him a sarcastic grin. "Do I look that bad?"

"You look tired," he said ﬂatly. "And like you wouldn't remember the last time you ate."

Her eyes rolled. "Are you sure you're not describing yourself, Jane?"

He laughed. "I suppose I could be, couldn't I? Yeah, I'm not sure the deranged lunatic look is really my best one."

"Not at all," she quipped. "If anyone can make ʻcomplete psychopathʼ look good, it's you."

"I'm not sure if I should be ﬂattered or insulted," he told her. How he had missed these conversations over the last half of a year. Her delight when she one-upped him. The playful ﬂirting. Yes, maybe Lisbon was onto something. Let go of all the hurtful, awful, wonderful, horriﬁc things that had happened and just be themselves again.

Her head rested against his shoulder again, more heavily this time. Without thinking, he set his cheek against her hair. Well, he mused, maybe not completely themselves. There were things they were going to have to talk about in the not so distant future. It was going to alter the relationship they had, and that was terrifying. But, in the end, hopefully it would be for the better. The best.

He made another decision. "Let's go grab some dinner." Get out of the ofﬁce for the ﬁrst time since they had originally arrived from Las Vegas. "Iʼll even buy you a drink after. I probably owe you one anyway."

"Two," she said immediately. "You owe me at least two drinks. One for the fake breakdown, and one for the fake death."

He chuckled into her hair. "That sounds fair enough."

Still, no one made any move to leave. He wanted to pull her into his arms, wanted to know what it felt to hold her without worrying that he was accidentally going to kill her, no matter how well thought out his plan was. It wouldn't do, however.

One brief embrace, or even one lengthy embrace, was not going to be enough for him. For the past several years, he had been living on small moments, feather-light almost-accidental touches, and loaded gazes from across the room. She had been in his arms only a handful of times: two hugs, one much more significant than the other, and a few dances, mainly at police balls and one notable class reunion. Oh, and that time he had hypnotized her. It had been perfect.

But they had all had context. She let him back on the team, he was going to shoot her, and what did you do at a ball besides dance, anyway? What would it be like in a moment where they weren't on a frightening timeline or being watched by a hundred tuxedoed policemen?

It would be far too tempting to do it again, that was what. And then he would probably satisfy his curiosity to know what she tasted like. Which would undoubtedly lead to other things. Oh, they wouldn't make an official announcement, but it was unlikely that people at the office wouldn't notice.

And then she would die.

The CBI and the FBI had been infiltrated by Red John's spies. The man already knew Teresa Lisbon was his Achilles heel, knew it even more since he had gone to such great lengths to ensure Lisbon's safety. She would become Red John's inexorable focus if they were in a relationship.

Giving into his feelings would only hurt her in the end.

Still, he wasn't sure if he could will himself back into every aspect of their usual relationship. He was pretty good at accidentally-on-purpose touching people. And perhaps a little handholding now and then wouldn't go amiss. It was nice, this feeling of being literally connected to her. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles absently.

When this was all over, when Red John was dead and he had managed to master the worst of his demons, it would be a different story. He had big plans. Spouting poetry in the office-type plans. Flowers, ridiculously grand gestures, the whole thing. Lisbon, underneath her tough, hard-bitten exterior, was a little tiny bit of a girly girl.

"Dinner?" he finally asked. "I'll drive."

She raised her head from his arm. "Or not. I think the last time I let you drive it was a mad dash to Vegas in the middle of the night."

"Oh, come now, Lisbon. Some trust, please." He stood, pulling her up as well. He kept her hand. "When have I steered you wrong?"

"Are you sure you want me to answer that question?" she asked.

He tugged on her hand, pulling her across the room. "Stop being mouthy, woman."

She smiled, and let him lead her out of the room. On the last stair, before they reached the civilization of the rest of the building, she gently released his fingers. His lips quirked wistfully. "After you," he said, opening the door with a flourish.

Lisbon stopped in the bullpen before they left, alert eyes taking in the entire scene. Rigsby wasn't there, spending some well-deserved time with his son and girlfriend. Grace was tapping keys on her computer, expression alert and focused. Cho was taking notes from a file, checking and double-checking the information.

"All quiet on the western front," he quipped, smirking. "I'm pretty sure Serious Crimes will manage to survive the night without you."

She made no comment about his driving on the way to the restaurant, and he flirted with her all through dinner. It was light, easy. Before she even touched her second glass of wine, her cheeks were rosy. She looked lovely and relaxed, the Teresa Lisbon he used to know.

He drove her home, listening to her laugh. At the door to her apartment, she paused. "Do you want to come in for a drink?" she asked. He could see the hope in her eyes. After everything he had put her through these past months, who was he to deny her that?

"I'd love to," he said.

While she poured, he lounged on the couch, noting that her apartment was spotless for a change. Clinically spotless, he thought. Like no one even lived there. He felt another touch of sadness.

After Lisbon handed him the wine glass, she sat on the opposite end of the couch, curling her feet beneath her. He pilfered the remote and absently flipped through the channels. No nature shows; not now, possibly not ever again.

They watched the last twenty minutes of a sitcom in companionable silence, both chuckling softly occasionally. When the ending credits rolled, he saw Lisbon's eyelids were drooping. "I'm going to take off. It's been a long day." He hoped she would sleep for the next twelve hours.

"Mm," she said, blinking rapidly. Then her gaze focused. "Jane? Where are you going to go?"

He paused, thinking. "Back to CBI, probably. Do you know how long it's been since I slept on my couch?" Maybe he would get a hotel. Or maybe not.

She frowned, the line between her brows becoming pronounced. "Why don't you just stay here? Save yourself the drive. Besides, my couch is pretty comfortable, even if there's no Elvis stain on the ceiling."

He read in her eyes again that she didn't want him to leave. She was worried, scared that he would vanish again. Of course, she would never admit it. He felt…almost humbled by her feelings. And ashamed of himself once more. Really, how hard would it have been to find a clean line and call her?

Well, that would have been easy. But staying away from her would have been much, much more difficult. She might have also talked him out of his plan, and he couldn't have had that.

Shrugging, he looked at his surroundings. "I guess I could sleep here. Probably a lot less chance of someone interrupting my dreams with something as tedious as another murder investigation."

"I'd feel better," she told him. "At least I'd know you hadn't fallen asleep at the wheel. Plus, I'll make you eggs in the morning."

He smiled, and there was a tiny edge to it. More women making him eggs in the morning. And there was very little chance of Lisbon cooking while wearing his shirt and not much else. All in all, the eggs were generally a bad plan, but he certainly wasn't going to tell her why. In fact, he would very much like to expunge the night he spent with Lorelei from his memory. Unfortunately, he needed the damned woman, so he was going to have to use whatever leverage he could.

But hell, he still liked eggs, regardless. "I'll hold you to it," he said.

Which was how he found himself sprawled out on Lisbon's couch in the dark, still mostly dressed. Her apartment was quiet, peaceful. Well, almost.

Lisbon wasn't sleeping. There was almost a tense silence coming from her room, occasionally punctuated by rustling sheets. After an indeterminate period of time, the rustling came again, then a loud sigh. He smiled to himself as he heard her padding towards the living room.

"I figured you'd have crashed the moment your head hit the pillow," he said by way of greeting.

He _felt_ her shrug. "Me, too. Know any good sleeping tricks? Didn't you put a mob boss to sleep once?"

"Meh." He waved a hand in her general direction.

"How do you survive this, the insomnia?" She moved to perch on the ottoman in front of him.

There were certain rules that could be broken in the middle of the night. "Come here," he said, tossing back one edge of the blanket that was draped over him.

She stared.

"I mean it," he said. "Nothing will put you to sleep as well as good old-fashioned human contact." His lips turned up. _Also, nothing like getting exactly what you want, huh, Jane?_

Lisbon hesitated so long that he was afraid she was going to turn him down. Then slowly, very carefully, she took his outstretched hand, let herself be pulled forward, and curled into his arms.

He was perfectly quiet for a bit, impressing this moment into his memory. She was warm, her slight form wrapped around his. Her dark hair was silky against his nose; he could hear her elevated pulse pounding in her throat. He traced his fingers down her spine, and she relaxed against him.

"Focus on your breathing," he murmured, lips very close to her ear. "Breathe in, count one. Breathe out, count two. That's all I want you to think about."

She made a face against his chest. He smiled.

"Typical, Lisbon. Someone starts talking about focusing your breathing and you totally write it off. No wonder you're no good at yoga."

She lightly rapped on his chest. "Quiet, old man. I'm trying to sleep here."

He pulled the blanket up over both of them, and she burrowed a little closer. Immediately, he knew he was right about his earlier hunch. There was no way in hell he was going to be able to go nine years without doing this again. He fought a small shiver of fear. Lisbon was going to be even more endangered…

To calm himself, he counted her breaths, since clearly she wasn't going to do it herself. He curled a hand around her head, the other still drawing absent patterns on her back. Three hundred and seventeen breaths later, he was convinced she was asleep. He was grateful for that.

And here they were. Teresa Lisbon was sound asleep in his arms. As far as he could tell, the world was still turning. That was a little strange in and of itself, since he had been convinced for years that such an event happening would probably be the cause of the literal end of earth.

He shifted very slightly, mildly terrified of waking her up. The spell would be broken then, the magic over. For there was definitely a certain magic that surrounded almost lovers in the dark of night.

There were things to worry about later, most definitely. Those pesky conversations and all of that. And the haunting possibility of a vengeful serial killer taking it all away from them in a heartbeat. If he prayed to anyone, he would pray that Lisbon would never suffer because of her involvement with him. Which was a futile hope, because she already had.

He tightened his grip on her, cheek pressing against her hair. She responded sleepily, fingers clutching his shirt.

He took in a breath. _One. _Let it out. _Two._ In. _One. _Out. _Two. _

The best night he'd had in nine years, and he was busy thinking of horrible endings. He was a piece of work. When he died, he should donate his body to science. Someone could dissect his brain, figure out what the hell was wrong with him.

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and closed his eyes with force. If it killed him, he was going to spend a restful night with the woman he loved in his arms.

_One. Two. One. Two. _

Everything else he would deal with in the morning. Besides, Lisbon had promised him eggs. He would hold her to it.


End file.
